


Meet the Parent

by JustDanny



Series: Shassie goodness [3]
Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: M/M, because Henry is great and awful at the same time, family meetings and awkward conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustDanny/pseuds/JustDanny
Summary: He’s decided to call it ‘The Day Burton ‘Bigmouth’ Guster Went And Destroyed Life And The Universe As We Know It’. Also, Sunday afternoon for short. And it somehow, against all odds and common sense, feels depressingly life-altering.(Or, the one where Henry Spencer really wants to meddle in his son's love life, and Gus is ridiculously easy to crack.)
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Series: Shassie goodness [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052168
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	Meet the Parent

It is all Gus’ fault.

Okay, so maybe, judging by Lassie’s expression, that’s not really clear from the outside. But he _swears_ it wasn’t him. Not this time. He’d never play with something this dangerous.

“So now, you know. He sort of wants to meet her,” he’s trying to explain to his quasi-boyfriend. “Only, well. She’s- you.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d say Lassie has paled a little. As it is, he’s almost sure that the detective is keeping as calm and composed as it could be expected from a man of his age and social standing. Who is also being asked to meet with Henry Spencer, of course, and tell him he’s sleeping with his son.

So, all things considered, he’d be forgiven for chickening out a bit.

“Can’t you, I don’t know, take O’Hara?” 

The idea is not as ridiculous as it sounds. All in all, Jules is probably more than capable of defending him against Henry. Also, she knows about them, which is Lassie’s fault because he can’t keep his mouth shut for more than half a minute when his ego is involved. And that means that Shawn can get her to play his girlfriend without having to give a series of convoluted explanations that would end with an awkward call he’d never pick up. Also _also_ , she’s great. His dad would have nothing against her. _And_ she’s a woman, which would spare him a conversation he’d rather not have with Henry in the next, well, fifty years or so. Right; now that he thinks about it, she’d be almost perfect. There’s only a little problem.

“He’d spot her a _mile_ away,” he tells Carlton. Which brings them back to square one, and to the inevitable conclusion. “I guess you’ll have to come.”

***

It all started about a week ago. For no apparent reason, Henry had decided, back when Shawn came back to Santa Barbara and started his amazing Psych adventure, that he’d never spent enough time with his son, and so he’s thrown himself into making up for all those years they had a perfectly healthy non-relationship by turning Shawn’s Sundays into a living hell.

The one silver lining to that weekly torture, if Shawn is to find one, is that he gets to eat good steak without having to pay -not even by using a card that _might_ have Gus’ or, lately, Lassie’s name on it. Which is why his bestest friend in the world has taken to accepting the occasional invitation, too; ‘occasional’ here meaning ‘regular’. A good idea; a great idea, even, because Gus and Henry usually find something boringly _adult_ to talk about, letting him just lie idly and enjoy his full stomach in peace. So, Shawn has been regularly congratulating himself on the best scheme ever -food and silence and no bonding at all required- up until this weekend. 

He’s decided to call it ‘The Day Burton ‘Bigmouth’ Guster Went And Destroyed Life And The Universe As We Know It’. Also, Sunday afternoon for short.

Things with Henry, he has to admit, have improved considerably since he got back here. That may be the reason both he and Gus have lowered their guards enough for something as tragic as this to happen. Gus keeps insisting it’s not the end of the world; of course, he sort of has to, seeing as it is his fault.

So, as he has patiently explained to Lassie, it all started while his mouth was still watering at the sight of the steaks. Henry had opened a couple of beers, and Gus was drinking faster than he usually would; which, fair enough, may have had something to do with the sheer amount of double-entendres Shawn insisted on delivering. His friend still hadn’t fully recovered from the shock of finding out about him and Lassie; their ‘serious conversation’ about it had just happened a couple of days before. So, it was just _too easy_ , getting onto Gus’ nerves while he coyly pretended to be as innocent as a newborn hippo. Which is a lot.

That was, up until Henry caught on.

“So, Shawn,” his dad started, in what he should have known was a dangerous tone of voice, “are you still seeing that Gina girl?”

He almost choked; a very subdued reaction, bearing in mind the reality his father was suggesting he was living in. Still, Henry seemed to take it as an admission of guilt. To be fair, suspecting Shawn of having done something terrible is kind of the whole basis of his personality. 

“You should probably bring her one day, you know. Have her meet your old man. Like you did with Jess.”

Shuddering at the memory - a stolen car and a stupid haircut giving him goosebumps -, Shawn did his best not to think about either of those events, and mostly succeeded. Which was when Gus, who had drunk maybe three beers already, started giggling. It would have been funny, the whole thing just a misunderstanding, were it not for what happened next.

“I’m not seeing Gina, dad!”

“Well, you never told me you broke up!”, was Henry’s retort. Shawn shrugged.

“It was like _ages_ ago. You weren’t even born. Oh, wait”, he thought better about what he’d just said. “I mean, like, dinosaurs were still roaming the Earth, so you were probably around there somewhere.” He waved his hands around before grabbing for his can of beer and gulping most of it in one go. Even then, he still shuddered when Gina’s face came back to his mind, rising from whatever depths of hell he’d vanished it to. “I can’t believe you’d think-”

“Well, it’s hardly my fault. You don’t tell me _anything_. And you’ve been acting- weird.”

A sage nod on Gus’ part that was supposed to be discreet but that Henry caught immediately.

“See? Even Gus thinks so. Is there anything going on?”

There are not many absolute truths in the universe. One of them, though, is that Shawn would rather stick his hand in a fire than talk about his love life with Henry.

“Nothing ever goes on, dad. You know I’m a sexless amoeba. Also, I’m a minor. I can’t even _know_ about those things.”

A shrug on Henry’s part, who was smart enough to ignore each and every one of Shawn’s comments. It would have stopped at that. It _should_ have stopped at that. But then Gus started to full-on _cackle_ , and the end of the universe came without knocking.

“Gus? Are you alright?”

“Hey, man, I don’t see what’s so _funny_. You-”

“ _Sexless_ , he said! I wish!”

Okay. So maybe Shawn shouldn’t have insisted on giving his friend intimate details until not even sticking his fingers in his ears and singing loudly was enough. But still: Gus should have known better.

“Oh. Is that-?”

“Gus is clearly senile. Must be old age. It’s highly contagious, you know.” 

But already the damage was done: Henry had gotten curious, and spent the rest of the afternoon insisting that Shawn give him some kind of clue as to _who_ this mysterious woman was. It, of course, only made Gus laugh harder, tears filling his eyes at one point while his psychic friend silently plotted his murder.

And then, just as Shawn thought he’d survived the afternoon, there came the icing of the cake.

“You know, I’m making lunch for us three. Your girl, you and I. Next Sunday. Don’t even think of skipping it, Shawn.”

***

This should probably be easy. Carlton already knows Henry Spencer: he’s even gone fishing with him, with disastrous results, and they’re both grumpy and kind of old and have at one point been hardened cops together. With awful hair.

That’s what Shawn’s trying to tell Lassie, and what Lassie rightfully refuses to listen to. Still, the psychic can already see the first cracks appear in his mostly-serious-fling’s steely resolve. He’s winning this round.

He wins most rounds, to be honest. It’s probably got something to do with his often underestimated ability to never, ever shut up. 

(Or, at least, he hopes it’s _just_ that. The alternative is sort of scary: it’s too early to be thinking of who may or may not be willing to actually _change_ anything at all for the sake of this _thing_ they’ve got going on. Particularly since some deep, shameful part of him keeps getting giddy at the idea.)

“Alright. So, Sunday at twelve, Carly. Pick me up: I’m not facing total annihilation alone, you know.” With a broad, charming smile, he gives Lassie a last nudge before standing up, ready to leave. It takes him a few moments to realize they’re actually at _his_ apartment, and that Lassiter has no apparent intention of going away just now.

“I’m still not convinced. We could skip the country,” he suggests instead. Shawn’s absolutely fake smile widens, even though his brain starts swarming with genius plans that’d let them do exactly that. A heartbeat later, though, he catches the slightly amused glint in Carlton’s eyes, the same elusive sign he’s somehow learned to both adore and fear these past few months. The one that signals that, against all odds, his something-other-than-boyfriend-because-boyfriend-is-a-scary-word is starting to _have fun_.

Carlton Lassiter’s idea of fun is, contrary to popular belief, sort of endearing. He likes to watch old reruns of trashy cop shows, spends an unhealthy amount of time painstakingly recreating every last Civil War battle there’s ever been - with what he calls _action figures_ , but are actually glorified dolls, in Shawn’s expert opinion - and enjoys torturing the psychic way too much.

“So, should I be wearing my best suit? A dress? Oh, do I need to bring a homemade-?” Shawn shuts him up with a well-placed, if playful, smack. There’s a smirk and a tug at his arm, and he finds himself falling on top of the head detective, who is apparently in no hurry to leave.

“No take-backsies, Lassafrass,” warns the psychic, mirroring Lassie’s own expression before taking the chance to kiss him.

“Right,” is all the older man gets to say once they catch their breaths again. “I’m still bringing the gun, though. Just in case.”

***

Sunday morning comes and goes in a whirlwind, and at ten to twelve Shawn is torn between fleeing - he’s had his bike’s tank filled, tires changed and every little thing in its engine thoroughly checked - and crumpling down on the floor in an attempt not to be noticed for the next few centuries. 

This, this whole thing, should be easy. They’re talking about Henry, for heaven’s sake: Shawn has been practicing his not giving a crap at what his old man thinks of him for years. Decades. Millenia.

Still, it sort of feels different now. It may be all that time they’re somehow spending together, much to Shawn’s chagrin; or it may be the fact that, well. He can’t exactly _name_ that feeling that keeps nagging at him, growing louder and louder with each passing day, with each of the small, stolen moments he’s spending with Lassie, with _Carlton_ , but for the first time in his life Shawn Spencer feels like his father’s opinion can, somehow, be life-changing.

He almost has a heart attack when he hears the first knock. Cursing under his breath, blinking faster than any normal human being would, and trying his best not to howl like a dying calf, he opens the door to a sweaty if mostly normal-looking Lassiter. 

“This is an awful idea,” he manages to mutter before jumping his - alright, _boyfriend_ may be the right word here - and trapping him in a kiss that’s both terrified and _so_ , _so happy he actually came_.

“Agreed.”

A hand runs through Shawn’s already messy hair, and he looks up to find a warm, queasy smile spreading on Lassie’s lips. Blinking again, he does his best to study it, file it away in his internal Lassiepants’ folder: it’s a rare expression for the older man, one he hasn’t seen him wear in the presence of anyone not Juliet up to date. And, he supposes, he’s now included in the tiny circle of people allowed to see Carlton Lassiter’s sappy human side. Not even thinking about it, he plants a kiss on the tip of the older man’s nose. 

“We should get going. Before we lose nerve.”

Lassiter’s Ford Fusion is waiting for both of them, familiar and reassuring. They could just be going down to the beach, a bit outside of town because they’re not positive they want to be seen together like this, because it’s easier not to bring up certain things just yet. You know?, is what Shawn wants to say; I think this is a first step. Towards what, exactly, he’s not sure, but he slides his hand on top of Lassie’s, feels the older man’s fingers leave the steering wheel for a moment to squeeze it. 

“I’m pretty sure it’ll go better than it did with Jess, at least.”

***

It is ominous. This, exactly, is how astrologers should have felt when about to enter one of Tutankhaten tombs or whatever.

“I think you mean archaeologists. And it’s Tutankhamun,” comes Lassie’s soft correction. Still, he hasn’t got out of the car either, both of them staring at the familiar porch in something akin to terror. 

“Potayto, potahto,” mumbles Shawn. With a last deep breath, a brief prayer to all the gods he’s ever heard of and many others he’s pretty sure he’s just made up, he grabs for the door handle. “Any last words, Lassie?”

“This is all your fault, Spencer.”

But he imitates the psychic, opens the door and faces the world outside with a grimly set expression and - probably - a couple of hidden guns somewhere, in case things get ugly.

The four steps up his father’s porch seem to have grown a few kilometres since the last time Shawn was here. They take away almost all his strength, leaving him puffing and trembling up until Carlton’s steadying hand grabs his shoulder. Then, he knocks.

An apron-clad, slightly disgruntled Henry Spencer opens up after the third knock, right before it’d have been considered _acceptable_ to just up and leave, the bastard. He frowns at both of them before waving the tongs he’s carrying around in what is _clearly_ a murder attempt. 

“About damn time”, he says. “Carlton, I’m gonna need help with the grill out there. Shawn makes a frigging mess every time he touches it: I’m not trusting him with anything that needs _actual cooking_.”

Stunned, but unable to fight it, the detective makes his way into the house, following the eldest Spencer around like a dumbfounded puppy and leaving Shawn behind to process the whole thing alone. For a full fifteen seconds.

“Kid!,” comes Henry’s voice from inside. “Are you coming? You’re not grilling, but by god you’re at least making the salad!”

***

It is all - normal. Unnervingly so: they cook, they eat, they even talk about things that are thankfully not Shawn or Shawn’s embarrassing childhood. At one point, Lassie seems to relax a little bit, and stops bringing a hand to the gun he’s most certainly not hiding in the back of his pants every time Henry addresses him directly.

All in all, one could say it is a complete success. Which, honestly, freaks Shawn out a little bit: nothing in his life is ever that simple, least of all if his dad is involved. 

He takes the chance to talk to Henry once they finish eating. Lassie wisely opts to clean the grill outside, leaving the two Spencers to sort things out.

“You knew,” he accuses his dad once they’re alone. With a smug smirk, Henry neither confirms nor denies it. “You _knew_ beforehand, and you still had to make me go through this? Really?”

His dad is clearly amused, and feeling good enough about himself not to bother answering Shawn’s questions. 

“Come on, do you think I never noticed? You really think I’m that dumb, kid?,” he tells him instead.

Shawn gulps, shrugs and sort of lets a puff of breath out, not knowing what to say. His father takes the chance to - dare he say- _smile_ at him in what seems an actual, affectionate gesture, and not just an aggressive show of teeth. He must have slipped somewhere, hit his head hard enough that now he’s living in some sort of parallel universe where Henry Spencer has been replaced by Barney the Dinosaur.

“Shawn, you’ve been drooling all over the man ever since you met,” is all Henry has to offer as an explanation. “Remember: I’m the one that taught you all your little ‘psychic’ tricks, huh?”

Something in the way he speaks tips him off. Narrowing his eyes in distrust, Shawn studies his father’s expression; the smile falters slightly, but, to Henry’s credit, he remains mostly stoic.

“Gus told you, didn’t he?”

Not that Henry even bothers denying it, of course. With a hearty laugh, he nods. 

“Sang like a bird. To be fair, it cost me almost a full batch of double-chocolate cookies.”

That, somehow, only makes it worse.

“The bastard.”

Still, Shawn doesn’t have time to say much more: soon Lassie’s done in the backyard, and Henry swiftly and effectively turns his glare in the general direction of the older man. Not that he’d mention it - alright: he most assuredly will, repeatedly -, but Shawn could swear he sees the detective squirm.

There’s some coffee afterwards, a polite impasse when nobody even glances at the elephant in the room, large and expansive and probably pink as it is. But things are almost _normal_ , in a sane, logical way that all three of them can sort of deal with. The initial awkwardness has dissipated; Henry hasn’t made one comment that can’t be interpreted as a jab at his son, which is reassuring in its own sick way. Lassie takes his coffee with more sugar than any living person can possibly stand, and at one point he even slides his hand surreptitiously under the table to squeeze Shawn’s knee.

It is almost six when his dad decides to blow it all up.

“So, Carlton.” 

Everything freezes after just those two words. Shawn feels the coffee he’s already drunk and probably digested try and make a comeback; Lassie almost chokes on air, and there’s a sudden glint of panic in both their eyes while Henry plunges on, undeterred.

“So, about this whole- thing. With the two of you,” he points. Ah, here it is at last - the freakout Shawn just _knew_ had to happen at some point. His dad has been holding himself together quite nicely, but he was bound to show his true colors any- “Is it serious?”

“What do you-?”

Shawn knows he’s blushing because Lassie is blushing, too, the tips of the ears red and hot, hands clenching and unclenching without him even realizing. He’s almost adorable like this, all flustered and unsure; the psychic’s instincts are screaming for him to run to Lassiter, hold him and take him away from that house now that they’re still in one piece. 

“I mean, you do realize what you’re walking into, right? Not just, I mean, not just career-wise. I don’t know if you plan to come out at the station at some point; still, I guess times have changed. And you’re Head Detective: not much they can do about it, if it bothers them.”

Lassie’s blush is disappearing; he’s growing paler instead. If Shawn didn’t know him as well as he does, he may not even notice the slight tremble of his lower lip: he’s no longer embarrassed, or nervous, he realizes. He’s angry.

He should probably put a stop to this before things get ugly, of course, but Henry keeps talking.

“What I mean is, you realize it is _Shawn,_ don’t you? He doesn’t have the best record when it comes to the whole through thick and thin-”

There. It should be Shawn’s cue: he could still defuse the whole situation, walk away from there, but he’s suddenly paralized because Henry - his _father_ \- hasn’t even waited until he’s out of the room to start tearing him to pieces, and it _hurts_.

That is, until he sees his expression, and his stomach starts to churn and his lungs let out the air they were holding. Henry Spencer has a great poker face. 

Shawn _did_ learn from the best, all in all.

“-and he can definitely be a handful. I mean, he’s immature, and loud, and will probably-”

“Stop it.” 

Lassie’s growl is low and deep; it sounds aggressive, almost like a wild animal ready to leap. His eyes train on Henry’s, fists balled as he waits to see if the eldest Spencer is willing to keep trying his luck. 

“I’m not saying anything you don’t already know, Carlton.”

The detective frowns, lets out a new growl. Shawn’s chest almost puffs out.

“Stop. It. You don’t have any right to say-”

In the nick of time, and right before his boyfriend mistakenly decides to kill his dad, Shawn opts to finally intervene.

“Alright, alright,” he says, in what he hopes is a light enough tone of voice. Lassie’s eyes dart to him for about a second before going back to his original victim: he has his interrogation room face on, which sort of worries Shawn a little bit. “Enough is enough, dad. Lassie, down.” The joke doesn’t seem to amuse either of the older men very much, but at least Henry finally relaxes, offering up a small smirk that’s directed straight at his son.

“You shouldn’t let this one go, Shawn. He’s a keeper.”

***

“What the hell was that just now, Spencer?” Lassie’s still suspicious, which really doesn’t come as a surprise. He has every right to be so, particularly when dealing with a Spencer.

“That, loverboy, was what they call ‘a twisted, awfully mean but ultimately well-meaning test of character’,” is Shawn’s smiling answer. 

Henry has thankfully left them both for a while, holing up in the kitchen to clean up a bit before they decide to leave. Which, if Shawn gets his way -and he probably will-, won’t be much longer.

“A-? You mean he-?” Lassie’s precious little brain still seems about to explode with the sheer weirdness of all that’s just transpired. With a smirk, his magnanimous psychic boyfriend plants a thoughtful peck on his lips, which is bound to make it all better in about just now.

“You know, you’ll still have to get the tour, get to see his shotgun and all that,” he mumbles against the detective’s lips. He feels Carlton’s growl in his own skin, but he can also see the slight worried crease between the older man’s eyebrows. “You know, that was a joke, Carly. And, honestly: I don’t think any amount of guns can scare you off.”

“Because you think I just can’t keep away from you?”

“Because yours are probably _larger_ **_,_ **if you catch my drift.” Wiggling his eyebrows, he gets back in time to see a downright dirty expression flash across his boyfriend’s face. “Alright. Not to be the one to cut the fun short, but we should probably get going. I need time to plan my revenge, Lassiepants.”

They don’t even get the chance to stand, though. As if summoned by some evil spirits or something, Henry Spencer magically appears in the middle of the room in front of them. He’s wearing his _Smokin’ Hot_ apron and he’s apparently finishing drying off some cups, which he places on top of the coffee table before extending his hand to Carlton.

“No hard feelings,” he says. If it weren’t impossible, Shawn would swear his lips are even curving upwards, if only barely. 

The detective takes up the offer, shaking hands with a wary frown still on and much more strength than necessary, in Shawn’s opinion. Not that anyone’s asking him, of course.

“Right. Thank you for the meal.”

Lassiter stands after that, only letting go of Henry’s hand half a minute or so later. This is probably one of those cops’ things; or maybe just a grumpy work-obsessed men thing. In any case, Shawn has little to no interest in deciphering the exact meaning of each little gesture, at least if it involves staying at his dad’s much longer.

“Any time.”

“Great. So, dad: we had fun, we listened to your fishing stories, we drank that thing you keep calling coffee… I think it’s time for both of us to go do the nasty behind closed doors, alright?”

Charming, as always, he purposely ignores the way Carlton’s ears redden, along with the horrified look in his father’s face, as he strides forward.

“That’s-” But Lassiter’s stammering is cut short when the psychic grabs his sleeve to make him follow. With a little wave on Shawn’s part, they’ve almost reached the door when Henry speaks again.

Just wonderful.

“Kid! I wasn’t done talking!”

“Then you really need to work on your time-management skills. We have to go. Now. We-”

Giving no indication whatsoever that he’s heard his son, Henry looks at Lassiter again, nods curtly with his head.

“Take care of him,” he tells him, all serious and proper. He’s probably rehearsed this. With Gus. The Traitor. “And of yourself. You see, fishing can be quite dangerous at times.”

With that, he finally lets them go, even opening up the front door for both of them. Shawn makes sure Lassie doesn’t open his mouth until they’re getting into the car. 

“That last thing was-?”

Shawn nods, lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“A threat. Hope you’ve got that plan to get out of the country all figured out, Lassafrass. Just in case.”

With a shake of his head, the older man starts the car. There’s a smile, one that’s half amusement and half - dare he say - fondness, on his face. Of course, his voice is still gruff and grumpy and manly when he speaks, because there’s only so much softness Carlton Lassiter is willing to show the world for a day.

“Should have figured Henry’d be almost as bad as you.”

That makes Shawn’s eyes glint, mischief and a bit of hurt pride showing in them.

“Oh, I promise you: he isn’t. That’s what he’ll find out. He and Gus. Soon enough, my dear; soon enough.”

To be fair, the cackle is not as flawless as he thought it’d be. But he’ll work on it. For about a day, at least. Shawn Spencer does like his schemes to be appropriately framed, after all.

It is not until they’re out of the car, Lassiter’s copy of Shawn’s key rattling in the psychic’s own pocket - because what’s the point of giving out copies if one cannot steal them back -, that the younger man finally lets himself feel the exhaustion, the whole day’s events making him sag against the detective.

“So, what did you think?,” he dares to ask after a minute. Lassiter seems much calmer now, almost unnaturally so. Nudging the psychic slightly, he gestures for him to open the door with the keys he _knew_ he had taken. 

“It was- alright, I guess.” He shrugs, but there’s the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s so freaking _smug_ right now; Shawn, still shaken from the whole ordeal, decides _that_ can definitely not stand. Kissing him softly, he nibbles at his lower lip until Lassie’s way too busy gasping for air and throwing himself at him to even _think_ about being self-satisfied. With a last peck and a playful grab of his boyfriend’s tie, Shawn finally opens the door to his apartment.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Way better than it went with Jess.”


End file.
